


The Angel He Is

by GoodandIneffable



Series: Good Omens Fic Week [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Archangel Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley "fell" but didn't fall, Flower shop owning Crowley, Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Tattoo Artist Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 05:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodandIneffable/pseuds/GoodandIneffable
Summary: Crowley, after defending those sentenced to fall, loses his place among the other Archangels and his place in Heaven. He's sentenced to one human life without memory and he chooses to spend it in a flower shop.





	The Angel He Is

**Author's Note:**

> This one's actually pretty good so please enjoy and be gentle with it!
> 
> [For day 4, flower shop/tattoo parlor au]

Anthony J. Crowley has always gone by his last name. Sometimes when he’s asked why, he says it’s because he hates his first name or that it’s just a little more professional sounding. If he’s honest, it’s because something deep inside of him knows that’s not his name. Crowley- it feels familiar, like something all his own. Which is a very odd thing for someone say about their name. 

It’s Wednesday; it’s a lovely day. Crowley likes days like this, one’s where the clouds frame the sun but never cover it so the air is always warm. It’s these days that he can pull a display cart with carefully arranged bouquets onto the walk in front of his store- a quaint little floral shop called Ethereal Arrangements. 

“Hello.” Crowley stops futzing with the daffodils and looks up. “I’d like a dozen roses.”

“We have some bouquets over there if you’d like to choose-“

“No, no, dozen _ white _ roses, please,” The man says and Crowley finally takes a good look. He’s so familiar, so _ something _ that Crowley can’t put a finger on. The man’s eyes widen when their gazes meet and he holds back a grin. 

“Oh, well, I don’t think I have any of those today. I could order them for you, be in tomorrow?” 

“Yes, uhm, you see, I can’t come back tomorrow. Not until Saturday,” he says. 

“I could have them delivered?”

“Yes!” The man brightens, his shiny smile as blinding as the sun. “Yes, please.”

“Right, let me get this down.” Crowley sticks his scissors into his back pocket, retrieving a notebook while he’s there. “Dozen white roses for?”

“A.Z. Fell.”

“Wonderful, Mr. Fell,” He says gingerly. “What’s the address?”

“Oh yes, 19 Greek Street, Soho.”

“Lovely,” Crowley nods as the notebook and pen return to their pocket. “I’ll get those to you by noon.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Fell is glimmering. Crowley isn’t sure if he’s imagining it cause the guy’s just so immaculate and heavenly or if he’s really got stars in his eyes. He’s hooked all the same and very much looking forward to hand delivering the roses himself. 

He comes in early the next day, getting things together to leave with poor Newton who sincerely shouldn’t be working in a flower shop alone. Protocol is listed on a sticky that’s taped to the register, all advanced orders already arranged and ready for pick up. All except for a dozen pristine white roses wrapped in paper and a yellow bow. Those flowers currently rest in Crowley’s arms as he walks down to the address. It’s, thankfully, not a long way but he’s quite surprised by the sign in the window when he gets there. It’s large and done in a font easy to read but hard to write in. 

**“A. Z. FELL TATTOOS. EXPERT WORK. MUST BE 18+ TO BE TATTOOED. WE ARE CASH ONLY.”**

Inside is clean, even the bell on the door makes a crisp sound that mingles with the low buzz somewhere in the back. Crowley’s attention is immediately taken by the walls and the art that covers them. Many are generic examples, but among them are realistic animals and angels, as well as demons and devils. 

“Hello again!” Crowley jumps and nearly drops the flowers. “Sorry,” Mr. Fell chuckles. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“No,” Crowley swallows then laughs, embarrassed. “It’s alright, I’m fine.”

They stare at each other for a few moments. 

“Here-“ Crowley’s arm juts out. “Your roses.”

“Oh yes!” Mr. Fell grins and takes them. In doing so, Crowley’s eyes catch the snake wrapping around his pinky and further up towards his wrist. “Thank you very much!”

“I like your tattoo,” Crowley says quickly. Mr. Fell beams. 

“Thank you! I love it too.” He holds his right hand up to show off the black and red serpent. Crowley feels something tug on his mind. Before he can figure out the exact thought, he’s greeted by a headache. “How much for the roses?”

“They’re £15.”

“Oh my, well,” Mr. Fell pauses to retrieve his wallet. “Here you are, Crowley.”

Brief panic crosses over both their features because ‘_ I didn’t tell him’ _ but also ‘ _ shit, he did not tell me’. _Mr. Fell quickly points to the name tag drifting from Crowley’s chest to his shoulder. He thanks God herself for that convenience. 

“Oh, right,” Crowley nods. “Right, well, enjoy the flowers.”

“I will!”

Crowley stops, his palm wrapped around the door handle. Something deep inside him feels taught. It’s as if there’s this force deep inside him, yanking him back towards the man with blond hair and starry eyes. 

“Are you alright?”

“Do I know you?” He turns on his heel. “I swear I do, right? From somewhere? We’ve met before?”

Aziraphale’s jaw works in an _ odd _ way, tensing and untensing before being set sternly. _ Aziraphale _. Crowley isn’t sure how he knows the name but it feels like fire when it enters his mind. It burns and hurts, but it’s warm too. Warm and safe. One of Crowley’s hands presses against the side of his head as he staggers, Aziraphale withholding an urge to drift right up next to Crowley. He snaps. Time seemingly freezes.

“We have,” He says softly. “We’ve met many times, for many reasons, dear.”

“When?” Crowley grunts. He’s squinting, the burning sensation in his brain blisteringly painful. 

Aziraphale hesitates, looking up with a deep frown held between his brows, his gaze shifting uncomfortably. “We..”

“We didn’t, y’know..?” Crowley struggles with the sentence and Aziraphale obviously doesn’t want to hear the rest of it. 

“No! We- well, that’s not-!” He breathes deeply. “Heaven. We met in heaven.”

“I died?!” Crowley gawks. 

“No!” Aziraphale moves closer to Crowley. “And please, do try to stay quiet. I don’t know if they can hear us..”

“Hear us- _ they _?? What- ngk!” Crowley stumbles into the couch beside the door and holds tightly onto it. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale glides over and grasps one of his forearms. 

“What’s going on, Aziraphale..?” Crowley asks, his eyes screwed shut. Aziraphale brightens and moves his hand up to Crowley’s neck. 

“You’re remembering! They told me there was no way you could remember, that their little miracle- one of the most complicated I’ve ever seen done- would keep it all from you. All the time, they said it was gone. I told them they ought to know who they were dealing with, an archangel for goodness sake. And one full of love at that. You can’t erase the love, I told them.” Aziraphale leans in close. Crowley can smell him, a rich chocolate and ink smell wafting off of Aziraphale that forces him to pry his eyes open and look up. “I told them..”

“Archangel..? What are you on about? I work at a flower shop down the street... I-I’ve lived in Soho my whole life.”

“What do you really know about your life, dear?” The question lingers longer than Crowley appreciates. It’s valid. What does he know? He can’t remember his parents’ names or occupations or the name of his primary school teachers, doesn’t know where he grew up. Aziraphale takes the look forming on Crowley’s face as an answer. “That’s because it’s not _ your _ life.”

“You-!” Crowley cries out. “You can’t just tell me I’m not really living my life- my- I have a job! And a flat!” 

“Please calm down, you have the inconvenience of needing to breathe.”

“Inconvien- what? Do you not breathe?” Crowley asks manically. Aziraphale remains quiet. “You don’t breathe?!”

“I’m an angel as well, I don’t.. require it, per se,” He mumbles. “But you’ve been.. severely demoted, so you do.”

“Demoted? You’re actually saying I was an archangel?” Crowley finally inhales, but it tastes all wrong. “Why’d I fall..?”

“Oh, no, you didn’t fall!” Aziraphale rushes out. “You- well.. oh dear, how might I.. You tried to.. present the point of view of those sentenced to fall.. as a viable thing. While not agreeing with Lucifer exactly... the others saw it as its own form of rebellion. Rather than being felled, I bargained for you to live your punishment over one human life with no memory of.. before. They allowed, just so long as I stood watch over you.”

Crowley’s silent for a moment. Aziraphale has to check he didn’t freeze him accidentally, gently tapping on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Why you? Why did you ask for the flowers? Was it to see if I would remember you? Want to go back to Heaven?” Crowley speaks quickly and aggressively. “I was fine.”

“Yes, I know. I see you every day,” Aziraphale says before realizing they may be the wrong words. “The flowers, uhm, you see... This’ll sound quite selfish but, I just wanted to see you, your eyes. They’re not quite the same but I adore them anyway. It’d been nearly thirty years since I’d seen them and.. I missed you terribly.

“Walking past that shop every day just to see you tutting around among your flowers with a smile on your face, I’ve done it seven years without properly seeing you. I was weak, and I wanted something that made you happy to make me happy as well. You always loved flowers, especially the white roses, which you used to paint and pass to travelers whose names you never learned. I understand this is a lot and you may not remember everything I say, but if you would just try to follow the leads you’re uncovering in that beautiful brain of yours.” 

Crowley folds his arms across the front of his body. “What are you doing here. In this tattoo parlor, I mean..”

“Ah!” Aziraphale smiles. “I discovered I’m quite handy with a needle. Pen and paper too. I used to draw snakes, like this one you pointed out.” He extends his right hand again. “When I was offered a choice of a profession on earth, I figured I’d give it a go? It was the closest building they could find me to your shop. The tattoos are special to everyone, I never offer doubles.”

“Unique,” Crowley mutters. Aziraphale nods. “Can I touch it?”

“Yes, of course!”

Crowley slowly reaches out, his worn fingers brushing over the ink. As he does so, it heats up. The once black ink is now glowing a faint yellow. Aziraphale grins. 

“It was for you, I should’ve known that would happen.”

“For me?”

“For you,” Aziraphale says softly, eyes glued to Crowley and how he concentrates on the serpent. 

“We used to be something.” There’s no question in his voice. Crowley’s sure of it and the tiny noise Aziraphale makes only backs him up further. 

“We may have been.”

“The way you talk about missing me, how I was full of love? It was for you, wasn’t it?” Crowley looks up. He can see the delicate glitter within Aziraphale’s pupils. “They _are_ stars.”

“Yes.”

“Did you make them too?”

“No,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “You put them there.”

“Oh.” Crowley twists his bottom lip between his teeth. “I suppose I know that. I know you.”

“Yes, my dear, you do.” Aziraphale takes one of Crowley’s hands between his own. “You most certainly do.”

“I don’t want to go,” Crowley says meekly. Aziraphale smiles at him and presses a kiss to one of his cheeks. 

“You can come back any time, my love.” He brushes a hand through Crowley’s unkempt hair. “I’ll stop time for you.”

“They can’t see us?” Crowley asks and Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’ll bring you flowers every other day.”

“Wonderful, my dear.”

Crowley watches Aziraphale, matches his faux breaths, then leans their foreheads together. It eases his ache. He stretches his left forearm out beside them. “I want your stars, there on my arm.”

“A tattoo?” Aziraphale looks reluctant. 

“A service for a service, good business.” Crowley wears a very earnest smile. 

“They’re your stars.” 

“Not when they’re in your eyes. I suppose hung them for you, they’re yours now.” 

“The Archangels don’t like tattoos, you know,” Aziraphale says, placing his palm over the spot on Crowley’s arm. 

“As far as I’ve heard, they don’t like me very much anyways.” 

When Crowley leaves their little time bubble (and the parlor), he’s got saniderm on the brand new constellation inked into his arm, which he’s learned is called Alpha Centauri. He spends Friday night dying some white roses dark blue and painting little white dots on them. He delivers them like the angel he is to the angel he loves on Saturday morning.


End file.
